


of daisies and memory

by zanykingmentality



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY FAVORITE SUNSHINE CHILD, Light Angst, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanykingmentality/pseuds/zanykingmentality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inigo sits in stunned silence, his gray eyes riveted to the gentle curve of her smile, breathtaking and mesmerizing.</p><p>“It suits you,” Robin murmurs. The wind does nothing to assuage how his face <i>burns.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	of daisies and memory

The grass is soft between his toes as he rests against the bark of a tree: it tickles at his ankles and brushes against his feet. He slides down to a sitting position, stationed just next to a very focused Robin. Her cloak spreads out behind her, legs extended outward, book resting in her lap. Her hazel eyes don't stray from its text, even as Inigo sits next to her, arm brushing hers.

Inigo leans against Robin’s shoulder; he rips grass from the dirt and lets it fly in the wind.

Ten minutes of this, the fluttering of pages and grass in the wind, pass when Robin says, without looking up, “Inigo, you’ll run the whole hill barren at that rate.”

He sits up and glances at the grass resting in his palm, flecks of earth scattered about his fingertips, then at the patch of dirt in front of him. “Oh.” Heat rises to his face; he runs a hand through his hair. “Um.”

By Robin’s leg, several daisies sprout up from the ground. Inigo stares at them, the way they sway when the wind blows. He glances back at his palm and finds the grass is long gone, the specks of dirt clinging to his fingers the only reminder that the verdant blades were ever there. He closes his hand into a fist.

Robin slides her cloak off of her shoulders and rests it on her lap, on top of the book she’d been reading. Inigo certainly does _not_ stare at her arms, and he definitely does _not_ notice the way the sunlight breaking in through the cracks between the tree’s leaves shines on her face and makes her look almost ethereal. And he _absolutely does not_ feel his heart throb painfully in his chest.

She picks two daisies and expertly weaves them together in a chain, lithe fingers twisting and entwining green stalks. She adds another. Then another. And another. Inigo watches in awe.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asks reverently. She pauses and gazes at the chain in her lap.

“I don’t know” is her response. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something else, but thinks better of it.

The end of the daisy train is linked with the front, forming a circular chain of white and bright yellow. Robin runs her fingers over it with a feather-light touch; Inigo can almost feel the same weight against his arm, his neck, his cheeks. He shivers.

Robin picks the chain up and lets it rest in her open palms. Her fingers curl lightly over it, shielding it from the wind. Hazel eyes flit to him, then back down to the yellow in her hands. Her gaze is almost wistful, coveting for something she can’t remember. Inigo opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , when she turns on him. She lifts the chain and lets it sit atop his hair.

Inigo sits in stunned silence, his gray eyes riveted to the gentle curve of her smile, breathtaking and mesmerizing.

“It suits you,” Robin murmurs. The wind does nothing to assuage how his face _burns_.

He blinks and snaps out of his reverie, offering her a small smile. He reaches up and smooths the bangs that swoop over his forehead. “Thank you,” he murmurs. Her smile grows even wider.

“Consider it a birthday present,” she replies. Inigo blinks at her in surprise and she giggles. “You know, for your birthday in a few days?”

“Ah, y-yes, I know,” he stammers, “I just didn’t think you’d… remember…”

Robin bats at his head, careful not to knock over the crown of daisies resting atop his hair. “Of course I remembered, you dummy!” She sits back with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest, lips twitching, threatening to turn up in a mocking smile. “Geez.”

“Was that really necessary?” Inigo complains.

“Yes.” She turns up her nose haughtily. He can’t stop the grin that forces its way onto his face.

Inigo bumps his elbow against Robin’s, prompting her laugh and attention. “Am I gonna get a party? For you know, love, all I need is… perhaps tea for two?”

“Don’t push it,” she responds immediately. Inigo raises his hands in surrender and falls silent.

A leaf flutters down and settles on Robin’s cloak, still resting in her lap. She picks it up and examines it closely, raising it against the sunlight filtering through the tree’s canopy.

The gray-eyed man clears his throat, readjusting the crown atop his head. “So, I’m to assume the lovely tactician’s memorized the birthdays of the entire army? That is to say, she has a truly impressive mem-”

“Gaius, January second.” Her tone is suddenly short and clipped, eyes narrowed. She doesn't look at him. “Say’ri, January eleventh. Severa, January twenty-first. Gregor–”

“Ah, of course.” He doesn’t think a recitation of every member of the army’s birthday would serve any purpose, not here, not now.

“And, while we’re on the subject, my memory is _fine_.”

Inigo winces. _Oh_. He remembers hearing from his father, a close friend of Robin’s, that she woke up an amnesiac in the middle of a field, with no recollection of how she got there, who she was, or even her own name. “I’m… sorry.” The words, ones that don't often tumble from his lips, sting like acid in his mouth. “For my lack of tact.”

“It’s alright.” She’s back to examining the leaf, but there’s an unmistakable faraway quality to her gaze. “I suppose I just have a thing for birthdays.”

“Because it’s another year you’ve survived.” Inigo _gets_ that, more than he wants to. In his future, where the sky is a permanent dull gray, where birds have long stopped singing and cicadas no longer chirp in the early hours of night, a birthday was something that never even crossed his mind. He can remember, faintly, a birthday party in a small house, and a cake, and balloons. The memory burns behind his eyes, a dull and throbbing ache for something he once had.

“Yes.” Robin sets the leaf on top of her cloak and runs her hand over the grass. “There are no certainties in war.” Then she pauses, looks up at him, and laughs humorlessly. It’s a brittle sound; he just barely detects a wetness at the corner of her eyes. “Or perhaps I’m just sentimental.”

He takes her hand in his and presses it to his lips, _self-consciousness be damned_ , and says, “Or perhaps it’s your beautiful brain doing its best to make everyone happy.”

She stares at him in a stunned silence before grinning. “As usual, your idle flattery gets you nowhere.”

Inigo presses his other palm to his chest. “Love, do you really take an honest compliment as idle flattery? You wound me.” His grip on her hand tightens.

Her laugh rings across the hill, beautiful and bright, the ray of sunlight breaking through the somber black clouds that were his future. “I’m afraid your definition of honest and mine don’t exactly match.” Hazel eyes linger on the brilliant white of his daisy crown.

She gathers her cloak and book in her arms; her hand is ripped from Inigo’s when she stands. “We should head back to camp.” He doesn’t stop the frown from pulling at his lips.

“Then, promise me we’ll pick this up again at a later date. Say, my birthday?” He leans back on his palms, verdant grass brushing against his earth-flecked fingers. His eyes widen at the sight of Robin, ivory hair and hazel eyes against the azure of the sky; a lazy, enamoured smile twitches at his lips. An errant, quixotic thought flits through his head, that maybe, _maybe_ -

“Let the record show I’m too kind for my own good,” Robin responds, offering him a hand, which he takes. The pads of her fingers, pressed against the skin of his wrist, blaze white-hot. She pulls him up so he’s standing in front of her, inches taller – how strange it feels to be taller than someone older. “Yes, I suppose we can.”

“Then I’ll take my leave before you change your mind. Ta-ta!” He prances away, daisy chain displayed proudly atop his head, glancing over his shoulder at the amused curve of her lips, cloak and book in hand, staring after him.

Days later, he laughs into the hollow of her throat, feels her searing warmth against his skin, tastes the remnants of a pastry and candles on his tongue; he swears his heart does _not_ skip a beat when she fixes him in her gaze with a gentle smile, saying, _Happy birthday, Inigo_.


End file.
